The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor Bradford

      ‘Drop that bag!’ Maxim yelled irately, his expression one of furious anger. The man did nothing, continued to gape. There was a dumbfounded look on his face, and he appeared to be momentarily paralysed.

      With a rush, Maxim sprinted across the floor, heading directly for the intruder, confident he could tackle and overpower him before calling in the police to apprehend him.

      Just before Maxim reached him, the burglar pulled a gun and fired.

      Maxim heard the report, felt the bullet slam against his chest. He went down at once with a thud, sprawling between the living room and the library. The look of astonishment on his face changed to one of stunned shock.

      Maxim thought: This can’t be happening to me … it can’t be ending like this … not after all I’ve been through … I can’t be dying at the hands of a petty thief …

      

      The burglar stood stock still, listening.

      He wondered if anyone had heard the shot, then dismissed this idea at once. There was nobody around. These houses were summer places. That’s why he had headed for the area earlier. He’d already pulled two other jobs down the block. Easy pickings they’d been. He hadn’t had to waste anybody in the other houses though. No one had walked in and surprised him, that’s why. Shame about the guy who just had. But he’d had to protect himself. The guy was big, powerful, could’ve taken him easy.

      The burglar walked over to the body, looked down at it dispassionately. The man he had shot was lying on his side. He did not stir. Blood stained the front of his pale blue shirt, was already seeping onto the grey carpet, turning a patch of it a funny rust colour.

      Shoving the gun back into the waistband of his trousers, he pivoted swiftly, returned to the library, grabbed a few more silver trinkets, threw them into the laundry bag. There was a pinging sound as they struck the items he had stolen from other homes in the vicinity. Glancing about, satisfied that he had ripped off the best of the small stuff here, he left the living room, switched off the lights as he headed out. He went through to check the kitchen, doused the lights there, returned to the hall.

      He stood listening again.

      The darkened house was as silent as the grave. So was the street. Nothing moved. No cars drove past. Methodically, he began to carry the pieces of equipment and the television set to the front steps. Once everything was outside, he dropped the latch on the door and pulled it tightly shut behind him. Still moving with speed and expertise, he went up and down the path until all of his booty had been stowed in the station wagon. Sliding in behind the wheel, he drove off without a backward glance.

      He did not see one solitary person, nor any traffic, as he sped down Lily Pond Lane. He knew he was safe. Nobody ever came out here in this kind of freezing weather in the dead of winter. The body would not be found for weeks. And anyway, he couldn’t be linked to the man’s death. He had been smart, cool. He’d not left a single fingerprint, not even half of one. He knew better than that. He always wore gloves when he pulled jobs.

      

      Elias Mulvaney sat at the kitchen table in his small, comfortable house behind the railway station in East Hampton. He was enjoying the warmth of the blazing fire, his second cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut on this icy night, and thinking about the afternoon he and Clara had just spent at their daughter’s house in Quogue.

      It had been a red-letter day for them, visiting their first grandchild, revelling in her good health and prettiness, and in Lola’s happiness. She and Mickey, her husband of ten years, had been waiting a long time for this baby. Yep, it’s been the grandest day, Elias thought, and it has given Clara a real boost, made her forget her rheumatism. Clara had stayed on in Quogue for the weekend. Elias was certain she would be fussing and bustling, playing mother hen to the child and Lola, but he didn’t think there was any harm in that. None at all. Do her good, he decided, and picked up his mug, drank the rest of his coffee.

      The shrilling of the telephone broke the silence in the kitchen, made Elias sit up with a small start. He rose, ambled across the floor to answer it.

      ‘Mulvaney here.’

      ‘Good evening, Elias, this is Douglas Andrews.’

      ‘Hello, Mr Andrews!’ Elias exclaimed warmly, his grizzled, weatherbeaten face lighting up. Douglas Andrews had been a favourite of his for several years. ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

      ‘Very well, thanks, Elias. And you?’

      ‘Can’t complain,’ Elias replied.

      ‘I’m calling you because I’ve been trying to reach Sir Maximilian at the cottage, but there’s no reply. I was wondering if you’d heard from him this evening?’

      ‘Well, no I haven’t,’ Elias said, sounding surprised. ‘Been in Quogue all day, didn’t get back until seven. I didn’t even know Sir Maxim was out here.’

      ‘He did try to get hold of you several times today. Obviously, since you were in Quogue, there was no answer. Sir Maxim left the city around four-fifteen. I rented a Jaguar for him and he was driving himself. I figured it would probably take him about three hours, or thereabouts, and I started to call him around seven-thirty. I have a number of messages for him. I don’t understand why he’s not there, since it’s now turned eight already.’

      ‘Yes, Sir Maxim should have reached East Hampton by this time,’ Elias agreed. Because Douglas Andrews sounded so worried he tried to reassure him. ‘Mebbe the line is wonky in some way or other, it’s been mighty cold and windy out here these last few days, and we’ve had a lot of rain.’

      ‘Yes,’ Douglas said and paused. He took a deep breath, then continued, ‘I must admit, I’m growing concerned. I hope he hasn’t had an accident on the road.’

      ‘Oh I’m sure he hasn’t!’ Elias exclaimed. ‘Sir Maxim’s a careful driver, you know that. Now don’t you worry none, there’s more’n likely a good explanation.’

      ‘It’s very important that I speak with him tonight, Elias, and I wonder if you’d mind going over to the cottage, checking things out for me?’

      ‘Sure, I’ll go immediately, that’s no problem. Just give me your number so I can call you the minute I get there.’ As he was speaking Elias picked up the pencil near the message pad, licked the end, quickly scribbled down Douglas’s number as it was reeled off to him.

      ‘Thanks, Elias, I’m very appreciative,’ Douglas finished.

      ‘I’m glad to be of help, Mr Andrews. Now remember what I said, don’t you worry none, you hear?’

      ‘I’ll try not to,’ Douglas replied, knowing that he would.

      They hung up, and Elias hurried out into the passageway. He opened the top drawer of the chest, took out his bunch of house keys and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Hanging on a coat stand near the door were his down-filled parka, a woollen scarf and a cap with ear flaps, and these garments he took down and put on. He picked up his gloves and left at once, anxious to get over to Maximilian West’s place as fast as he possibly could.

      The pickup truck Elias used for running around the village was parked in front of his house, and he clambered in more agilely and swiftly than he usually did, and drove off down the street with a screeching of tyres.

      Once he had crossed the railway tracks he sped through the village, heading for Lily Pond Lane, driving through streets unimpeded by traffic this evening. East Hampton was deserted, and it looked as if every one of the locals had left along with the summer residents. Within minutes Elias arrived at the grey-shingled cottage.

      Alighting from the pickup truck, he walked briskly to the Jaguar parked immediately in front of him, shone his flashlight on the windows, peered inside. The car revealed nothing.

      Elias swung around, began to walk up the path between the frost-covered lawns. As he approached the house he suddenly experienced such a strange sense of apprehension